Rest area
The rest area.
Icon of the road trip.
Or at least a necessity, with the stretches of American asphalt winding for miles, hours from the nearest bit of civilization.
They’re not as useful as they once were, overtaken by “travel plazas” full of fast food and slightly cleaner restrooms.
But when you need one, you need one.
Either that, or you’re going to have to go through contortions better left to a gymnast to answer the call of nature without doing anything obscene.
I hit a rest area this morning.
A pocket of de-motivation.
I started thinking of it as stalling.
The car off the side of the road, hood popped, not sure what to do because my skills have never run toward the automotive.
But it’s a rest area.
The road’s right there.
I’m headed back out on it soon enough.
It doesn’t have to be elaborate to be a break.
A pause in the forward motion.
Take a breath, turn the key, and start again.
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This is part of The 100, 100 posts in 100 days.